Read Online In a Good Light by Clare Chambers - Free Book Online

treated with caution, it seemed. They sat Christian down to break the good news.
    â€˜Well done, son. You’ve got a scholarship to Turton’s,’ Dad began, offering him a hand to shake.
    â€˜Was that the one with the pool and the squash courts?’ Christian asked, punching the air when Dad confirmed that it was. ‘Magic.’ He mimed a forehand smash.
    Mum, already totting up the cost of another variety of racket, not to mention the uniform, smiled bravely. ‘It’s a great opportunity for you, Christian,’ she said. ‘You’re very fortunate.’
    Having dispensed with the congratulations, Dad launched into the first of their reservations. ‘The thing is,’ he said, folding and unfolding the letter mechanically, ‘if you do go to Turton’s, you’ll be mixing with boys from much wealthier families.’
    â€˜So?’ To Christian, other boys’ families were a matter of complete indifference, wealthy or not. ‘I don’t care.’
    â€˜What we’re trying to say is that the friends you make there will be able to afford things that we can’t,’ Mum explained.
    â€˜What sort of things?’
    â€˜Well, pocket money, television, new bicycles, expensive toys, parties, foreign holidays.’ Mum got quite carried away counting off potential areas of deprivation on her fingers until Dad interrupted.
    â€˜These are unimportant material things, of course, we all know that,’ he put in hastily. ‘The point is, if you go to Turton’s you’ll have to accept that there will be times when you feel left out. And we won’t be able to buy you back in.’
    â€˜Doesn’t bother me. If people like me, they’ll like me, won’t they?’
    â€˜Exactly. That’s just the right attitude. Good lad,’ said Dad, hoping to wrap up the discussion and post off theacceptance slip before Mum had a crisis of conscience and changed her mind.
    â€˜The other problem with schools like Turton’s,’ she said, stalling, ‘is that they tend to give the boys who go there the idea that they’re a cut above.’
    â€˜Is that bad?’ asked Christian. He had, after all, spent the last six months hunched over those test papers trying to ensure he was a cut above the other three hundred or so applicants.
    â€˜In the eyes of God everyone is special,’ Dad said.
    â€˜But not boys at Turton’s?’
    â€˜No, no,’ said Dad, conscious of having muddied the waters. ‘You’d be special whichever school you went to. And children who don’t go to Turton’s are no less special than anyone else.’
    â€˜Can I go to Turton’s one day?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, darling,’ said Dad, patting my hand. ‘It’s a boys’ school.’
    â€˜Are boys specialler than girls?’
    â€˜Absolutely not,’ said Mum.
    â€˜So can I go there or not?’ Christian wanted to know.
    â€˜I don’t see why not,’ Dad said, uncapping his pen.
    â€˜Now that we’ve ironed out those few little worries,’ Mum added. We all watched as Dad drew a squiggle on the dotted line. It was Christian who broke the silence of this solemn moment.
    â€˜Can I have a squash racket?’ he said.
    The evening before the first day of term, Christian was made to parade in front of us in his school uniform. Grandpa Percy – Mum’s dad – had sent a cheque for the whole kit: even the socks were new. Christian stood scowling in themiddle of the sitting room, a cardboard doll, hung with his press-out clothes. The blazer sat stiffly on his shoulders; his trousers held twin creases like the blade of a sword. He held his head awkwardly as though wearing an orthopaedic neck brace. On closer inspection it was discovered that he had failed to remove the cardboard packaging from the shirt collar.
    A flash cube splintered and popped as Dad took a photo to send to